Chapter 211: The Traitor’s Proposal
The meeting room wasn’t much to look at.
A flickering neon sign outside the window buzzed like a dying fly, casting a pale green light across the cracked concrete floor. The walls were exposed brick, stained with years of cigarette smoke and layers of graffiti tags, some so old they were nearly illegible, others fresh and bold, stacked one over the other like ghosts of gangs that had come and gone.
In the center of the room sat a long rectangular table, rough and mismatched. The slabs of wood were held together by metal brackets, some rusted, others freshly bolted. It looked like it had been built out of necessity, not style. The faint smell of gasoline clung to the air, mixing with cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of sweat.
This was the back room of Line Zero , an old pool hall turned makeshift headquarters. It sat buried deep within Chalkline territory, the kind of place only the dumb or the dead wandered into without permission.
Around the table sat the core of the Chalkline Boys.
Closest to the window, drumming his fingers in a rhythm only he seemed to understand, was Montez, the acting captain in charge. His skin was dark, his eyes sharp like broken glass, and he wore a thick varsity-style jacket with the sleeves ripped off, revealing the snake tattoo that twisted down his arm. He hadn’t spoken a word, but the silence around him was heavier than gunmetal.
To his left sat Ringo. Lean and jittery, he looked like someone who drank too much coffee and never slept. He handled the numbers, money, shipments, schedules, and always seemed on edge. His nose had clearly been broken at some point and never quite healed right. He gnawed on his bottom lip, a raw patch forming from the habit.
Next to Ringo sat Keisha, the only girl in the core leadership, not that anyone treated her differently. Her braids were tied into a tight bun, and her fingers moved fast across a tablet as she scrolled through files and reports. She was the one who always saw patterns before anyone else. The strategist.
Across from her lounged Snipe, legs kicked up on a broken chair, arms folded behind his head. He had a big build, a slow, lazy grin, and a temper like a landmine, calm one second, explosive the next. A fresh scar ran under his eye, a reminder of the last time the Rejected Corps had come knocking. A toothpick dangled from his lips, shifting slightly with every breath.
"They hit another one," Keisha finally said, breaking the silence. Her voice was cool and steady. "That makes three this month. All of them in our territory. All of them burned out by morning."
Ringo let out a groan, running a hand through his messy hair.
"I thought they’d slow down," he said. "After we managed to push back at them a bit... but nothing’s changed. They just walk in like they own the place. Start smashing stuff, torching the kitchens, dragging our boys into the street, "
"We know what they do," Montez cut in sharply, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. "And we know why they’re doing it. We’ve done our research into some of their strongest members. But the issue is, there are others now."
Keisha didn’t even lift her eyes from the tablet. "They’re going to make the final move soon. A full push to take us out and take over everything. We only have a few establishments left."
She paused, scrolling. "Granted, they’re the bigger ones. Stronger. And we haven’t turned up to fight personally yet."
"At the moment," Ringo chimed in, rubbing the back of his neck, "I’d say our power is still about even. Or at least... it was ."
He glanced around the table. "But I’m surprised we’re losing so many fights. Losing so many places. Word is, two more joined up with them, new ones. Strong."
Snipe scoffed and spat his toothpick onto the concrete floor. "Then let’s get rid of them."
"You think we haven’t thought of that?" Montez asked, arching an eyebrow at him.
Snipe gave a slow nod. "I’m saying we actually do it. Hit them first . Stop playing defense. Fight back. Show them the difference between a street gang and an organized group."
A long pause followed.
Montez leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting up to the ceiling, like he was hoping it might offer him a miracle. "No," he finally said. "Not yet. That’s what they want. Get us riled up. Get us to fight loud and sloppy in the streets like hotheaded punks."
"Then what?" Ringo asked, exasperated. "We just sit here while they chew through our turf like termites?"
Keisha cleared her throat, quiet but firm. "Actually... I was thinking we might need someone."
"Someone?" Montez turned to her, his voice low but curious. "It can’t just be someone . We need people who can help us, who fit the structure."
"I know," she said. "But still... it’s someone worth considering."
"I don’t like rumors," Montez said flatly. "I like people I can control."
"You might not be able to control this one," Keisha admitted. "But if we don’t move soon, if we don’t get ahead of the Rejected Corps, they’ll be the ones controlling us ."
A cold silence settled over the room.
Montez’s fingers began drumming again on the wooden table, faster, louder. Then suddenly, it stopped.
"Fine," he said, after a beat. "Let’s meet him. But if he smells like trouble, he’s out before he even steps through the door."
As if on cue, the door creaked open.
Slow. Deliberate.
And the air in the room shifted, cooling like someone had just opened a freezer.
A man stepped inside.
He wore a long, dark coat, the kind that looked like it belonged to an old military officer. His boots were heavy, worn at the edges, but each step echoed with purpose against the concrete floor. His head was shaved clean, and despite the dim light of the room, he wore a pair of cracked aviator sunglasses.
Not a single person said a word.
The man stopped just short of the table. He reached up and removed the glasses, revealing a pair of cold, grey eyes, unblinking, unreadable. There were stories in those eyes. Old ones. Violent ones.
"I heard," he said, his voice like gravel and broken metal, "you’re having a pest problem."
Montez didn’t blink.
"And you are?" he asked evenly.
The man slid the sunglasses into his coat pocket.
"Name’s Dud."